I have never been much of a typical beach person. I don’t like to sweat. I’m too fair to ever get tan — I go from fish-belly white to lobster red with no in-between. My arms get tired holding my book up to block the sun.

I do love shorelines, however. I enjoy watching tides roll in and out. I appreciate the way the water moves and changes, the way light catches and reflects colors and moods across the day, the waves rippling behind boats. 

Here in Wrangell, the waters are often glassy, sometimes a little choppy, but generally not too fierce.

For pounding, roaring, breathtaking waves I go to Depoe Bay, Oregon. I can sit for hours on a downtown bench or hang over the rail just outside of town at Boiler Bay, watching waves rise up and crash into the tall, rocky shore. 

I breathlessly watch as a series of waves build up, spill over themselves and then surge to the shore, anointing me with spray. 

I went this past July, full of anticipation. For five days, those predictably wild waves were unpredictably calm. Incredibly calm. Unremarkably calm. No crash. No roar. No rising up. No pounding. Just a surprisingly gentle splashing in.

I was disappointed. Why was the ocean doing this, instead of behaving the way I expected? I was the worst kind of tourist, let down because the ocean wasn’t meeting my expectations, like that mattered at all.

I realized I needed to appreciate the experience for what it was, not what I wanted it to be. After giving myself a shake and resetting my perspective, I was able to see the beauty in front of me. It was a different kind of beauty, but beautiful nonetheless.

It seems to me that realization holds true across many aspects of our lives. It creates a particular kind of satisfaction to appreciate jobs, kids, stores, trails, Amazon — all kinds of things — for what they are, rather than what we expect them to be.